


Two Weeks

by maschh



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Awkward Boners, Enthusiastic Consent, FC Barcelona, M/M, Oral Sex, Showers, h/c ish i guess?, never get injured, no doctor squick, physio AU lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-24 08:03:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8364364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maschh/pseuds/maschh
Summary: Leo hates being injured, but luckily his new physio is distractingly hot.





	1. Chapter 1

“Two weeks,” they told him. But they said that last time. And the time before.

“Weak pelvic stability,” they told him. As if he had a weak pelvis. All the training he was doing, all the fucking he was doing – he was Lionel fucking Messi, how could they talk about a weak fucking pelvis—

“Comparatively,” they told him. “As compared to the rest of you,” says the head physio, whom Leo has never liked, with his long nose and nervous eye movements behind circle-framed glasses. Always has the air that he's afraid Leo's going to be mad at him, which infuriates Leo more. The doctor can sense the waves of hatred Leo's sending out, loud and clear. But Leo is enough of an adult to realize it's not the doctor’s fault, to manage curt politeness despite his inherent distaste for the man. Just.

“The rest of me?” Leo says disbelievingly, trying to smile.

“Right,” the doctor says, with a smile that makes him look like he's going to be sick. “If your core, your legs, your glutes are much stronger – it has to do with muscle imbalances, you understand.”

Leo nods dismissively. He does, but he’s not comfortable with this strange attempt at flattery either. “Should I just grab a table, then?”

“Yes, sure. Here.” He leads Leo toward the tables, the kinds he wishes he was a little less familiar with.

“Get comfortable, _Señor_ Messi. I’ll have our new physio see to you in a minute,” says the doctor, with a tight smile and a quick exit. Leo sighs, leaning his head back against the fabric, legs stretched in front of him. _Every athlete’s nightmare._ Puyi had said that to him once, with all the gravity of an undertaker. The memory usually makes him smile, but that was when he could run a hundred percent. With a flash of masochism, he flexes his quad till the pain makes him hiss.

“Yeah, I know it hurts,” says a voice and he looks up, instinctively curling his leg into his body. The man who said it is wearing a broad smile, almost laughing. “That’s what we’re here to fix.”

Taken aback, Leo finds himself struggling to respond. The guy is good-looking, taller and broader than he is. Fit in that physio kind of way, where they could play several sports, and probably do, but you’ll never know which. Looks at him with these warm, disarming brown eyes, like he’s not a footballer that half the world always has half an eye on. Like they’re old friends and – damn, he asked Leo something.

“Sorry?” says Leo, probably interrupting.

The physio chuckles. “I just said I’m going to run you through some tests. See where you’re at. Is that all right, _señor_?”

The deference Leo normally hates, though out of this man’s mouth he doesn’t mind it so much. He nods.

“I’m Gonzalo.”

“Leo.”

“You know, I knew that,” says the physio with a grin as he begins to lead Leo through the exercises. It’s a bit embarrassing when he has to flinch, or go slow. He’s been told to be as honest as he can, and when he has to tell Gonzalo it hurts, his eyes drop to the floor and he blushes slightly.

“Okay,” is all the physio says, ticking marks on his clipboard. After half an hour or so, he tells Leo to stop. “So – I’ll send the exercises to you, most of them should be familiar. You’ve had these problems before,” he says, almost stern.

“Yes,” Leo says, and it’s hard not to sound annoyed. He’s well aware of all the injuries he’s had, thank you very much.

Again, Gonzalo looks amused. “I guess you’ve had a pretty long break from the physio,” he says. “You forgot about the last part. Ice and massage.”

“Oh, right,” Leo mumbles, and high tails it back to the table, embarrassed as the physio strolls over much slower. He sits down beside the table on a rolling chair.

“Lay back,” he says, and his voice has taken on a different tone, lower but somehow weaker. Leo adjusts the seat and lies down on his back, closing his eyes as he always does on the physio table. He waits, and as the seconds go by he feels goosebumps form on his stomach and arms. Why isn’t the guy touching him yet? His eyes open, confused, and the physio is looking at him with a pained expression.

“Could you spread your legs?” says Gonzalo, and for the first time he looks embarrassed.

“Oh, yeah,” Messi says immediately, opening his legs to give Gonzalo as much leverage as possible and closing his eyes again. _Duh, you idiot. You’ve a groin injury_ , he thinks, and despite everything he feels goosebumps form on his legs. Did they turn on the air conditioning? He swallows hard. Finally the physio lends his fingers to the inside of Leo’s thigh, and Leo can feel his body reacting.

He’s frozen. He can’t believe it. This has never happened before. He shuts his eyes tight, mortified. Gonzalo’s fingers have stopped. He can feel that his face is on fire. Sure, it’s been a while, his life is always thrown off track when he’s injured, especially with sex, but – he never thought –

“It’s perfectly normal,” says Gonzalo lowly, tone indecipherable.

“Hmm?” says Leo, as if he hasn’t heard. It’s one of those sink-into-the-ground moments.

“Perfectly normal,” he repeats, and his fingers have started working again, as if to prove the point. “Don’t worry about it. Seriously. Happens all the time.”

Leo squeaks and tries to concentrate on his breathing. After a minute or two, he feels a bit more in control.

“You’re, um, you’re Argentine,” Leo says.

“Oh, could you hear it? Shit.”

“Well, yeah,” Leo says, and if he wasn’t so overstimulated he might laugh. “Why, what’s the big deal?”

“I'm just hoping to lose the accent a little. I’ve been here five years now, so…”

“Lose it? How come?” The concept of not being a proud Argentine is very unfamiliar to Leo. Gonzalo kneads his knuckles into his thigh, none too soft.

“Eh. You stand out. I was _el porteño_ for the first year I was here. It gets old.”

“Ah, so you’re from Buenos Aires?”

“Yep.”

“River or Boca?”

“River.”

“Ahhhh,” says Leo, and it’s meant to be dismissive, but Gonzalo’s hit a tight spot and it comes out a little desperate.

“That hurts?”

“A little,” Leo says. He’s almost out of breath. He resolves to say less.

“You were so good about telling me when it hurt before,” says Gonzalo. “How’s this?” He moves slightly.

“Fine.”

"Fine?"

"Doesn't hurt."

“Okay,” he says. And then, after a minute: “You know, I appreciate it.”

“What?”

“People telling me when it hurts. That’s how we make you better. There shouldn’t be any pain at all before you go back to playing.”

“But how—”

“Yeah, I know, you’re Leo Messi. But you’re still a person. You need your body, man. Besides. Suarez and Neymar will be fine without you.”

“Hey, wh—” Leo tries to sit up.

“I’m joking,” says Gonzalo, tweaking his hip so he lies back down. “They’d have won that Celta match if you’d played.”

“So you _do_ follow football!” Leo says triumphantly, before realizing they haven’t actually had this conversation yet.

“Of course I do. I told you I support River.”

“Right,” Leo says. He assumed Gonzalo didn’t because he’s treating Leo like a normal client, not a world-famous footballer. Annoyed with himself again, Leo bites his lip.

Gonzalo finds another sensitive part of his thigh, and without his consent a little mewl escapes Leo’s mouth. “That hurts?”

“Eh. Kind of. Don’t stop,” he blurts.

Either Gonzalo lets out the smallest of chuckles or Leo imagines it. Gonzalo’s quiet for a few seconds, and Leo is alone in his awful embarrassment. “I was going to say, though – it’s okay if it hurts a little with a massage. Different than the exercises. It’s like rolling. A little pain is good.”

“Yeah.”

“But you know that,” says Gonzalo. “That’s how you got yourself in this mess.”

“Yeah,” Leo says, and he opens his eyes. Gonzalo is concentrating hard on his inner thigh, pressing and rolling with his knuckles and fingers. Leo wonders if this massage is longer than the others; somehow it’s hard to tell. Gonzalo catches his eye, and behind his beard Leo detects the slightest blush. Leo closes his eyes again, unable to stop the soaring in his stomach.

Gonzalo only does a few minutes more, and when he’s finished, Leo says, “Thanks.”

“Sure,” he nods, grinning. “Let me get you some ice and then you’re free to go, sir.” There’s just the slightest, delicious pause before that last word.

“Thank you,” Leo breathes, both dreading and desperate for the cold relief.

 

That night, he dreams about Gonzalo fucking him from behind in the physio room, on a table. The room is empty. Gonzalo whispers lowly in his ear, with a heavier _porteño_ accent than he actually has. He bites his earlobe and Leo wakes up with come all over his stomach and his cock, tangled in his sheets, sweating. He groans and rolls over and by morning, he’s almost forgotten the dream. Almost. 

 

Before the next physio appointment, he has a wank and a shower. He comes in with wet hair and the look Gonzalo gives him might be suspicious, but he’s probably just imagining that.

When he lies on the table after the exercises, Gonzalo is quieter than the last time. He’s diligent and generous at his work – he goes on longer than he has to, and Leo always feels great the next day, no pain at all from his fingers. Leo feels the arousal spike when Gonzalo touches him, but, mercifully, his dick stays down. He lets out the smallest sigh of relief.

This time, their conversation is cordial, slightly more stilted. Despite his accent, Gonzalo was actually born in France. He had dreams of being a footballer as a kid, but an injury in his teenage years sidelined him permanently.

“You’re really good,” says Leo.

Gonzalo chuckles. “Thanks,” he says, in a tone that means _I know_. Leo laughs too.

“Seriously, your hands don’t get tired?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes. I have these if they do.” He gestures to the assortment of little objects on the foot of the table. Suddenly playful, he reaches for one of them and kneads it into Leo’s quad.

“Oof,” Leo says, and Gonzalo laughs, not unkindly. “Different.” 

“Yeah, actually, my fingers could use a break,” Gonzalo says with a laugh, and continues. After a while: “Let me know if it hurts.”

“It doesn’t,” Leo says, but his voice sounds slightly strained. “I think I prefer fingers, though.”

Another dark chuckle from Gonzalo. Is Leo imagining this? He clears his throat, flexes his fingers to keep himself distracted. He can’t look Gonzalo in the eye.

He could get up right now. He could say, “You know what?” as if he’s just thought of it, as if he had an appointment he’d forgotten about. “I’ve got to go,” he’d say. He tries to imagine Gonzalo’s face if he did, but he can’t. Surprise? Disappointment? Indifference? Amusement? Probably some combination.

But then some stubbornness deep inside him kicks in. He grits his teeth, clenches his fist. He’s accustomed to winning. He’s going to win this too. He’ll stick it out. Deal with his cock later. He closes his eyes and answers the rest of Gonzalo’s questions in monosyllables.

 

He doesn’t make another appointment. He waits, waits, until Lucho nags him, until Lucho or one of those guys makes the appointment themselves, and then he insists on another physio. He learns the girl’s name, the blonde one – well, bleached blonde, but who is he to judge – just so he can specifically ask for her, and Lucho laughs, calls him a dog, and he laughs back, he is a footballer, Lucia is pretty.

But Gonzalo is there at that session, working on another footballer’s thighs, and when he makes eye contact with Leo, his expression is inscrutable. Leo chokes on his spit and, later, makes conversation with Lucia. Doesn’t look at Gonzalo again.

 

And he goes back, he’s well again, well enough, he scores three touches into the match against Deportivo. His groin is still his groin, he’s twenty-nine, not nineteen, but they win 4-0 and for a few moments it feels like enough.

He misses a call from the physio’s office the next day and thinks nothing of it. They call back when he’s at home and he finds himself slipping into the next room, away from his family.

“Hello?” he says, unsure why he’s speaking so lowly.

“ _Señor_ Messi, this is Lourdes from the physio at Joan Gamper,” says a brusque voice that has seems to have no interest in his mega celebrity. “We understand that your sessions with us have essentially ended, thanks to your return to the first team. However, we’ve been led to believe that there may be reason for concern going forward, so, if you’ll allow, we’d like to conduct a few precautionary sensor tests to see how your running’s been affected.”

“No, no,” he tries to laugh, “I’m fine, the _Míster_ cleared me to play, I’ve been back—”

“It’s not up to him to clear you, unfortunately,” says the cool voice. It makes him feel like he’s back at school again. “That’s our job.”

“Y-yeah, okay, uh, w-what day were you—”

“Tomorrow. It should already be in your planner, early before training.”

“A-all right, I’ll see if I can—”

“Thank you for your time, _Señor_ Messi.”

 

He’s done the sensor thing before, it’s mostly bullshit, onerous and time consuming. He knows how his body works better than anyone, doesn’t he? If he can play at the top level of European football, score goals, then tests be damned.

But he is polite and patient, and smiles kindly when the intern is nervous, fumbles putting the sensor on his leg. When it’s over, though, he tells them he has to go, he has to eat before training, can they please send him the results and give analysis then? Thanks so much, you’re too kind. Very kind.

He slips away with plenty of time before training, and he’s already eaten, of course, he has time to kill—

But Gonzalo is there at the doorway as he goes to leave, and the way he says “ _Señor_ Messi” might convey surprise, but what is he doing just standing there? His large frame nearly blocking the door.

Leo has stopped in his tracks. “Gonzalo, right?” As if he forgot.

“Yeah. Yes. Sir,” he says, with a nervous glance toward the hallway behind Leo.

“What is it?”

“You finished your treatment then?”

“Yep, finished last week.”

“I’m glad,” says Gonzalo. “I’m glad you’re back to playing now.”

Leo smiles. Gonzalo is hesitant, nervous like Leo’s never seen him.

“I was just – ” he tries to say, but stops himself. “I—”

“Is something wrong?” Leo says, concerned.

“No, nothing’s wrong,” Gonzalo says, and smiles in relief. “Your treatment was good then?”

“Yes, really good. It always is.”

“Because,” Gonzalo says, nearly cutting him off, “you switched – you switched physios, and I was just wondering whether—”

“Oh no!” Leo says, understanding. “You did a really good job. A really good job. I just—I heard you tended to work evenings, and that wasn’t so good for me…” he trails off lamely.

Gonzalo nods. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Because I’m actually new here – I mean I’ve practiced physiotherapy for years, but I’m new to Joan Gamper—”

“Yeah, I hadn’t seen you.”

“—and they gave me you, and I wanted to play it cool, because I knew I had to fix you no matter what, and I wanted to be sure—”

“You were really good,” says Leo, slightly amazed that this tall, broad, hot bearded man has gone so far out of his way to ask for his approval. He touches his bicep as he says it and there is that scientifically inexplicable jolt that both parties always understand.

Gonzalo’s face lights up, and the wicked grin is back. “With my fingers.”

Leo chuckles, and glances behind him. “Right,” he says, bringing his head close to Gonzalo’s and whispering lowly, “With your fingers.”

“Hope you’ve been doing all your exercises,” Gonzalo says, and Leo cracks up. Shoulders shaking, nearly falling into Gonzalo’s arms at the cheesiness and sheer audacity of his attempt. Gonzalo laughs too, steadying a hand on Leo’s hip bone. “What? You’re gonna need it.”

Leo finally sobers up as Gonzalo’s grip tightens. “Do you promise?”


	2. Chapter 2

Their texts over the next few days are tame, even overly friendly. They agree to meet that Sunday, after Leo finishes training. Mid-afternoon, like a lunch date. Except it’s at Gonzalo’s house. And there’s no pretense. Leo figures Anto knows – she somehow always knows – but still he tells her he’s staying late for extra physio work. They both prefer it that way.

The night before, Leo’s bored, so he gives Gonzalo an opportunity, sends:

_Can I shower at yours? After training_

And hopes Gonzalo thinks about him showering, hopes he pictures his tattoos as the hot water slides down them, caressing his skin. Maybe Gonzalo pictures himself climbing in there too, holding Leo against him, ass flush against his cock and whispering in his ear –

Gonzalo says: _Sure_

Alone in his bed, Leo covers his face with his arm, exhaling loudly. After the last conversation they had in person, Gonzalo is almost purposefully being boring. Has he lost interest? That all too familiar flicker of self-doubt stirs deep in Leo’s gut. Could Gonzalo be embarrassed by Leo? It seems unlikely, but he was never particularly awed by his celebrity either.

Leo grits his teeth and types: _Can’t wait ;)_ He squeezes his eyes tight and hits send. Just as he does, another bubble appears on the screen: Gonzalo’s.

_We’ll get a few showers in_

Fuck. Well, that settles it. Leo stares at the ceiling for a while, a silly grin on his face. Sighing and closing his eyes, he grips his hard cock and happily strokes himself to sleep.

 

But when Gonzalo opens the door for him, it’s like he’s back on the table again, awkward as you like. “Leo,” he says, and his smile is genuine, polite. Excited? "Come in.”

Before he can react, Gonzalo pulls him in for the double cheek kiss. Leo stutters but reciprocates, aware of all his bags, all his sweat. But Gonzalo doesn’t seem to notice. _“Somos argentinos, no?”_ He laughs at Leo’s slight hesitation.

 _“Pues, sí,”_ Leo grins.

“You can put your stuff anywhere,” says Gonzalo. "Bet you’re dying to get to the shower.” At this, he makes eye contact, testing. Almost wary.

Leo inhales too fast and manages to make it sound like he’s clearing his throat. The corners of Gonzalo’s lips turn up, but he doesn’t say anything. Waits. “Yeah, yeah, I am,” says Leo mostly to the floor, dropping his oversized Adidas bags beside Gonzalo’s big expensive-looking tan couch. God, you could fuck on that couch.

“It’s just upstairs,” Gonzalo says, but he is in Leo’s way. Leo, in his smelly trackie bottoms and oversized jersey, someone else’s. As if he can’t help himself, Gonzalo grips Leo’s hips, holding him there. And Gonzalo feels how Leo's body goes slack, something stirs in the other man, and he knows. Would’ve been happy either way, happy just to be there. But this is – this is nice.

And Leo must sense something too because his eyes slide up to meet Gonzalo’s, and this almost smug? crooked smile appears on his lips and he looks the most comfortable he has ever since he crawled onto Gonzalo’s table. They breathe silent, separate sighs. Leo pushes forward, towards the tremendous body heat, so they’re pressed chest to chest, just the fabric teasing between their two bodies.

Leo comes back to earth. He looks at the ground and says lowly, “I want to shower.”

Gonzalo frowns. “Okay.”

“First.”

Gonzalo grins. “Okay.”

“I just… I smell.”

“You don’t,” shrugs Gonzalo, “but it’s all yours.”

Leo grins. “Thanks,” he mumbles, and goes back to his bags, combs through until he finds what he wants. Gonzalo just leans on the banister and watches, a cocky grin on his face. Leo only realizes as he makes to go up the stairs again, his hands full. He laughs when he sees Gonzalo’s puppy eyes, and kisses him, quick and deep, and Gonzalo holds his elbows firm for as long as Leo will let him. Then, Leo saunters up the stairs.

 

“Oh, you smell so good,” Gonzalo teases as Leo steps out of the bathroom in a towel (he couldn’t resist). Gonzalo is sat up against the pillows of his enormous white bed, and he turned off the TV as soon as Leo came in. “It’s like a whole new person.”

“Shut up,” says Leo, but he’s smiling and moving closer to the bed. Gonzalo quickly maneuvers himself to the edge, and before long Leo is between Gonzalo’s thighs as the other man stares up at him. The smile is gone, replaced by a look of lust. The tips of his fingers against the top of Leo’s towel. All of a sudden it feels like a game of chicken.

Until Gonzalo pulls him closer, grips his ass tight through the fabric. And he leans in and plants kisses on Leo’s stomach, soft but stubbly, a contrast. Leo feels his eyes close and his head fall back, one hand tight in Gonzalo’s hair. The towel dropped at some point, he lost track, because now Gonzalo’s hot, hot mouth is enveloping his cock and… oh my God. He whimpers and it’s a sound he doesn’t recognize as his own.

He opens his eyes and God, Gonzalo is going at it, he really knows what he’s doing. Leo whimpers, his legs weak underneath him, and Gonzalo holds his hips tighter, an iron grip, he can do everything. Gonzalo is making these noises that almost sound like pleasure, like he’s getting off on how much Leo is enjoying himself. He’s being deliberately obscene, loud and wet against Leo’s cock, and it’s so hot, it’s too hot, Gonzalo is a cocksucker, this big, broad man just loves to suck his cock, Leo’s toes curl, he wants to cry—

Suddenly, without warning, Gonzalo pulls off. “You okay?” he says, and Leo is wrenched back to reality.

“Yeah,” Leo says instantly, reflexively. _Get back on my cock, please._ He aches to thrust forward.

Gonzalo laughs, wipes his mouth without breaking eye contact. “Just didn’t want your legs to give out.”

Leo shoves his shoulder. “They fucking won’t,” he says, and he’s close to whining, but Gonzalo just laughs again and backs up onto the bed. His cock is hard in his shorts. Leo follows.

“Gotta look out for you,” Gonzalo mumbles, and Leo rolls his eyes, even though Gonzalo is definitely kidding.

“Look out for _him_ ,” says Leo, gesturing to his aching, dripping cock.

“Okay,” Gonzalo grins. “Will you lie back so I don’t break your fucking groin, please?”

“Wouldn’t break,” mutters Leo, but he lays back on the pillows, his hand wrapped absently around his cock.

Gentle as ever, Gonzalo takes Leo’s hand off his cock and goes back to sucking it.

“Fuck,” cries Leo as the heat comes back. He holds Gonzalo’s hair tight, too tight, probably, but it seems to spur Gonzalo on, his head bobbing purposefully, his brow furrowed. Gonzalo seems to just want and want and want, fuck, he’s choking, he’s deep throating, he’s—

Gonzalo hums against Leo’s dick and, without warning, Leo comes hard, deep into Gonzalo’s throat, making him sputter. “Sorry, sorry,” Leo says as soon as he can speak again. He’s slack against the pillows, Gonzalo is wiping his mouth, his eyes, but he’s smiling, he’s still smiling.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and Gonzalo is leaning in, kissing his cheek. He smells so good, as if he'd just stepped out of the shower himself. “I didn’t—it’s been a while.”

But the truth is he’s never had his cock sucked like that. Professional footballer, household name, and he’s never had a blow job like the one his physical therapist just gave him.

“Are you okay?” he says, because Gonzalo still hasn’t said anything.

Gonzalo nods, kissing his nose, his lips, soft, not forcing anything into Leo’s mouth he might not want. Leo's whole body is pressed against the bed, Gonzalo’s body heat overwhelming.

“You really like that, huh?” he says accidentally. Gonzalo actually blushes, looking down, and Leo’s sorry he said it.

But Gonzalo has already recovered. He shrugs and meets Leo’s eyes again. “I like to help.”

They both laugh, gasping, desperate laughs. Too close, sharing oxygen. Leo reaches for Gonzalo’s cock, and Gonzalo quiets when Leo palms the front of his shorts.

“Want to get in the shower?”

Gonzalo groans. “I do.” But he’s not moving.

“What?”

“I – don’t want to break you.”

Leo chuckles. “Have you seen me play? You’re smaller than most of the center backs I tangle with.”

Gonzalo frowns. “Not by a lot, though.”

Leo shrugs. “Hey. I’m cleared to play. I’m definitely cleared to fuck.”

Gonzalo’s breathing quickens, like he can’t take Leo even saying that word.

Leo grins. He presses a kiss to Gonzalo’s neck, and then another, and another, till Gonzalo moans and leans closer, pressing him against the bed. Finally, Leo chuckles and nudges him so he moves, then pads off to the shower.

“You gonna tease me?” Gonzalo grumbles, sliding his shorts off, watching Leo walk away.

Out of sight, Leo turns on the shower. His belated “No” is garbled.

Gonzalo hasn’t moved except to take off his clothes, and strokes himself idly as if considering. “You promise you won’t break?”

“Will you get the fuck over here?” Leo whines, and Gonzalo smirks and he does as he’s told, wanders over to the bathroom. And there Leo is, rivulets of water running down his tattoos, running his hands through his hair like he doesn’t know Gonzalo’s there, but of course he does, of course he’s doing it for show. Gonzalo steps into the shower (it’s almost déjà vu), holds Leo from behind, and Leo almost jumps, Gonzalo’s body heat almost makes the water feel cold, and he’s hard behind him, achingly, painfully hard, but his touch is gentle, just holding Leo’s elbow and stroking his stomach.

“I want to fuck you so bad,” he says into Leo’s ear, almost inaudible. Leo’s cock stirs again, his eyes slide shut, he wants it too.

Leo tells him where the lube is and he’s out of the shower like a shot, back a few moments later. And Leo lets him bend him over in the oversized shower, lets him work him open, slowly pushing in deeper and deeper, long powerful strokes, and Leo is gripping the divot in the wall _tighttighttight_ as each time it gets easier.

“Fuck, you look so good like this,” Gonzalo says breathlessly. He finds Leo’s cock and strokes him, one, two, till he’s hard again, filling Gonzalo’s hand just right. “You okay?”

“Yes, fuck, yes,” Leo grumbles, too quiet.

“What? Tell me,” says Gonzalo, but he’s pretty sure he’s heard.

“Want your cock,” Leo says forcefully. “’M ready.”

Gonzalo just grunts and holds Leo in place as he puts the head of his cock against Leo’s hole, and it’s tight, he knows it’ll be tight, but Leo is rutting back for it, like it’s the only thing he cares about in the world. He slides in and Leo gasps in almost relief, but he’s stopped moving and Gonzalo eases in, keeping a slow rhythm.

“You’re so tight,” he groans. Strokes Leo’s hair in approval. “You’re so fucking tight, _amor_ , please…”

And Leo can’t speak, not with Gonzalo’s hands on his cock and in his hair and his grip so tight, his body so full of Gonzalo’s cock –

“Leo, fuck, Leo, you look so good on my cock,” Gonzalo is saying, his voice weak, about to give out. Leo feels like he’s floating, like he’s so fucking full, but Gonzalo is going deeper, pushing further inside him. Holding him up, supporting his body completely, just giving him what he needs –

“Can I – ” Gonzalo starts to say, and Leo says yes and he comes, deep inside Leo. Tugs on Leo’s cock as he does and then he comes too, all over Gonzalo’s hand. Gonzalo leans forward, holding Leo against the wall as they catch their breath. 

Finally, Gonzalo pulls out, and presses a kiss to Leo’s shoulder. “You okay?”

Leo laughs and nods, slowly turns around and kisses Gonzalo chastely on the lips. “Thanks for, uh, holding me there.”

“Thanks for letting me.”

“You’re strong,” Leo says, squeezing his bicep.

Gonzalo rolls his eyes but pulls Leo closer. “Stop, I’m gonna want to fuck you again.”

“I should give you a minute.”

“Yeah, a minute or two, Leo. Shit.”

“And probably not in the shower again.”

“Not in the shower again,” says Gonzalo. “But first, you gotta clean up, don’t you?”

Leo shrugs.

“You do,” insists Gonzalo. “And I want to help.”

Leo grins. “Okay.”


End file.
